The Paris Apartment(83)

I looked at what I’d done, the mess, the violence of it. Knowing that it had come from me. I felt like I had an electric current running through me. A feeling that was kind of like fear, kind of like excitement. But it wasn’t enough.

I knew what I had to do.





Jess




“I have to go,” Irina says. A nervous glance out at the dark, empty street beyond the windows. “We’ve been too long, talking like this.”

I feel bad just letting her wander off into the city on her own. She’s so young, so vulnerable.

“Will you be OK?” I ask her. She gives me a look. It says: I’ve been looking after myself for a very long time, babe. I trust myself to do that better than anyone else. And there’s something proud about her as she walks away, a kind of dignity. The way she holds herself, so upright. A dancer’s posture, I suppose.

I think how Ben promised to take care of her. I could make promises, too. But I don’t know if I can keep them. I don’t want to lie to her. But I make a vow to myself, in this moment, that if I can find a way, I will.



As Theo and I walk toward the Metro I’m reeling, running through everything Irina told us. Do they all know? The whole family? Even “nice guy” Nick? The thought makes me feel nauseous. I think of how he told me that he was “between jobs,” how it clearly didn’t make much odds to him. I suppose it wouldn’t if you don’t need an income, if your lifestyle is being bankrolled by a load of girls selling themselves.

And if the Meunier family knew that Ben had found out the truth about La Petite Mort, what might they have done to prevent a secret like that from getting out?

I turn to Theo. “If Ben’s story had printed the police would have to act, wouldn’t they? It wouldn’t matter if the Meuniers have some high-up contacts. Surely there’d be public pressure to investigate.”

Theo nods, but I sense he’s not really listening. “So he really was onto something, after all,” he mutters quickly, almost to himself. He sounds very different from his usual sardonic, downbeat self. He sounds . . . I try to put my finger on it. Excited? I glance at him.

“It’s going to be a huge scoop,” he says. “It’s big. It’s really big. Especially if establishment figures are involved. It’s like the President’s Club but way, way darker. It’s the sort of thing that wins awards . . .”

I stop dead. “Are you taking the piss?” I can feel anger pulsing through me. “Do you even care about Ben at all?” I stare at him. “You don’t, do you?” Theo opens his mouth to say something but I don’t want to hear another word. “Ugh. You know what? Fuck you.”

I march away from him, as fast as I can in these ridiculous heels. I’m not completely sure where I’m going, and of course my stupid phone ran out of data, but I’ll work it out. Far better than having to spend literally another second in his company.

“Jess!” Theo calls.

I’m half jogging now. I turn left onto another street. I can’t hear him anymore, thank God. I think this is the way. But the problem is that all the crappy phone shops look exactly the same, especially with their lights off and grilles down, no one about. There’s an odd smell coming from somewhere, acrid, like burning plastic.

What a bastard. I seem to be crying. Why the hell am I crying? I always knew I couldn’t trust him, really; I suspected he’d had some angle the first time we met. So it’s not like it’s a big surprise. It must be everything, the stress of the last few days. Or Irina: the horror of everything she just told us. Or simply the fact that, even though I half saw it coming, I’d kind of hoped I was wrong, just this once.

And now here I am alone, again. Like always.

I turn onto a new street. Hesitate. I don’t think I recognize this. But there seem to be Metro stops everywhere in this city. If I walk for another couple of blocks I’m sure I’ll find one. Over the churn of angry thoughts in my head I’m vaguely aware of some sort of commotion nearby. Yelling and shouting: a street party? Maybe I should head in that direction. Because I’ve just realized there’s a lone guy walking in my direction from the other end of the street, hands in his pockets, and I’m sure he’s fine, but I don’t really want to test it.

I turn off, head toward the noise. And way, way too late I realize this is no street party. I see a mass of people surging in my direction, some of them wearing balaclavas and swim goggles and ski masks. Huge plumes of black smoke are mushrooming into the air. I can hear screaming, shouting, the sound of metal being struck.

Heat roars toward me in a powerful wave and I see the fire in the middle of the street: the flames as high as the second-floor windows of the buildings opposite. In the middle you can just make out the blackened skeleton of a police van that has been turned on its side and lit ablaze.

Now I can make out the police approaching the protestors in riot gear, helmets and plastic visors, waving batons in the air. I hear the whiplash crack of the batons as they make contact. And mixing with the black smoke is another kind of vapor: grayish, spilling in all directions—coming toward me. For a moment I stand, frozen, watching. People are running in this direction, slaloming around me. Pushing, yelling, desperate, holding scarves and T-shirts over their mouths. A guy next to me turns and lobs something—a bottle?—back in the direction of the police.